Act On It

I was really peeved last fall when my ex-boyfriend went out and bought a motorcycle about five minutes after I said I was thinking about getting one. After all, I'm the one who watches "Sons of Anarchy" with near religious zeal. I'm the one whose 80-year-old dad just bought his second Harley. I'm the one with disposable income, a free spirit, a love of the open road, and a rebellious streak about ten kilometers wide. I've been saying I'm going to get a motorcycle some day for the past twenty years. How dare he beat me to it?

After fuming about it for an unbecoming amount of time, I came to my senses. (A) This is neither a reality TV show nor a competitive sport - though wouldn't it be funny if it was? The crazy middle-aged person who can demonstrate the depth and breadth of a midlife crisis the fastest wins an all expenses paid first class trip in a Humvee limo to the Emergency Room - deluxe private suite included! And (B) I've been all talk and no action for more than two decades. I was jealous of his spontaneity, his confident follow-through - and right at the onset of winter, no less.

This is what my drop looked like - inside my head.

It was pretty friendly of him to let me take his bike for a spin on the Richland Mall's rooftop parking lot four months later. It'd been more than a decade since my dad gave me that crash course on his first hallowed Harley, so I was a tad unsteady and nervous. Nevertheless, I tooled around on my ex-turned-boy-pal's Vulcan and got it up to a whopping 15 miles an hour. Then I braked to a stop and dropped it. He was a really good sport about the dented mirror and the fuel leaking everywhere. As he pulled the bike upright and waded through the gas puddle, he was actually grinning. "What did you think? You want one now, don't you?"

What I wanted was to cave to the fear that I didn't know what I was doing, that I'm too small and weak to hold a motorcycle upright, and that I should forget about this ridiculous fantasy of mine once and forever. But that would mean going down in history as She-Who-Was-All-Talk-And-No-Action - by far the least appealing choice. Thus, the intoxicating mixture of his enthusiasm and my fear inspired me to sign up for a weekend long beginner's course that very night. Then I got myself a learner's permit and googled "Top Ten Motorcycles for Short Women."

There would be action, by god, and slightly less talk.

Ride It

The day I finally get my first ride on a Harley Davidson

Is just like I dreamed it would be. A flaxen-haired me

On the back of a hog – arms wrapped around

A lean rebel of a man who drives me crazy.

Springtime in the Rockies – wind pushing tears

Out of my eyes – roar of big engine obliterating

Everything – hell – even the tulips bend back

In the gust created by our passing.

Only problem is – that rebel? It’s my dad

The retired math teacher – more Henry Fonda than Peter

In the midst of a midlife crisis about thirty years late.

At 70 he saved up his pension checks

For the bike and all the accessories. He’s got

The black leather jacket with the flaming orange logo

Emblazoned across the back

And the official HD bandana he can wear 
Gypsy style to keep his hair impeccably in place.

He removed the Sportster’s muffler

So that when he peels out of his driveway

He can be sure every one of his neighbors turns

To check him out. Of course they look – he lives in

A retirement village – they’re making sure

He obeys the speed limit of 10 miles per hour.

But we are off on a sunny blue highway

Helmet-free – rumble of big engine between my thighs

The smell of suede and Russian olive trees

That line the Gunnison River in my nose

And it is perfection.

NOT REALLY. I always wanted my first ride on a Harley

To involve a guy named Thor with long hair and earrings

Beefy biceps and a fringed leather vest.

We’d meet in a bar called the Salt Lick

Our eyes would lock over shots of Jack Daniels 
We’d split together on his big loud chopper

In some Easy Rider reverie bound for New Orleans.

Then my dad pulls over in a deserted parking lot

Climbs off and says in that tough guy voice 
He’s been cultivating “Stay put, kid. It’s your turn.”

He shows me the clutch – and the throttle – and the brake
Then how to shift and I’m thinking

What? You want me to … what?
But oh yeah    this is the man who
Took the training wheels off my first bike

And pushed me down the driveway

The one to recognize my fears

And insist I overcome them so….

First – I do a couple of slow elaborate figure-8s

Stall twice and almost lay it down

But then I’m ready for second gear.

I surprise myself with the pop of the clutch

And the rev of the engine and the speed –

I’ve gotta be doing at least … 20 –

And my hair’s streaming back

And there are tears burning my eyes

As 400 pounds of steel and leather feel

As light as the puffy clouds on which I’m soaring.

I don’t need Thor. I’ll ride myself to New Orleans.

Flip It

photo by Bruce Fingerhood.

Flipping Houses

It’s easier than you think

Just fall in love with his potential

Pretend he’s not a fixer-upper

Try to solve him like a simple toilet clog

A faucet with an untraceable leak

Grab a plunger and a screwdriver

Get grease under your nails

Get shit on your shoes  
                                                                                                                

Bang ineffectually with your hammer

And your forehead

Until you are so weary

You have no choice

But to give up and fall in love

With the next impossible project

This time don’t try to change anything

Except have a go at pulling up

That stained carpet

Knock out a wall

Put in a skylight

To illuminate everything he

Never wanted anyone to see

Watch him duck behind the couch

Under the dining room table

To stay out of your

Piercing bright light

Then you

Blinded with headache

From all that

Pointless installation

Give up and use

Your ever expanding tool belt

As you fall in love

With the next unfeasible project

Do this for 25 years

Discover it’s not all that different

From sticking with your first home

Watching it fall down around you

But staying in it for the children

Or because you said you would

Love   honor    cherish

Till death do you part

And now it’s not fit to live in

Either way it’s hard work

And you’re no quitter

You’re just not willing

To beat a dead habit

With your wrench

Or your sledgehammer

Or your forehead anymore

Everybody’s just getting scarred and bloody

So face it

The time has come

You’ve got to do-it-yourself

Fix up your own damn house girl

Find what’s concealed

Underneath that wreckage

Clamber over it

Alone for a change

Toil hard

Clean up after yourself

And when the work is through

Pop open a beer

Lean back in the hammock

Heave a long contented sigh

And look around

At the dream house

You taught yourself

How to build

Look Into It

He seems nice enough...

As promised, my dermatologist referred me to a specialist. Soon a nurse called to schedule my appointment with the most highly acclaimed dermatologic surgeon in the Midlands. “Do you know about the Mohs procedure?” she asked. I did not, but since I am a youthful techno-savvy lady with the Internet at my fingertips, I lied and told her that I did.

Should you ever find yourself doing research into the Mohs procedure, stick to the Mayo Clinic summary: "layers of cancer-containing skin are progressively removed and examined until only cancer-free tissue remains." It sounds friendly, worded like that; the type of thing that'll leave nothing worse than the mark left by the initial biopsy.

One must resist, under all circumstances, the impulse to search "Mohs" in google images. No matter how badly one wants a picture to go with one's blog post.

This being a PG-13 blog, I won't horrify you with the results of my search. Words alone will have to suffice. I saw things you wouldn't find in a Freddy Krueger movie. Gouges out of cheeks. Half a missing scalp. Nose removals, lips torn asunder. Quentin Tarantino ain't got nothin' on this Mohs guy, let me tell you.

Larry, Curly, and MOHs.

Dr. Frederic Mohs invented the microsurgery in 1938 - and no, he wasn't from Nazi Germany. A procedure this tried and true seems good enough to not lose sleep over, especially considering that I'm not special. One in five people get basal cell carcinoma, and Skincancer.org says comfortingly "it's rarely fatal." Ignore the part about how it can be "highly disfiguring" and you can rest your weary head.

(For some reason, I can't get "The Three Stooges" out of my weary head. Like Mohs, the Stooges premiered in the 1930's. Their first episode was called "Woman Haters." Coincidence? I think not.) (This digression is brought to you by the Vanity Research Institute, where people who claim to be aging gracefully instead wantonly fret about as yet nonexistent facial scars.)

Schedule It

One thing I am much worse at as I've gotten older is making appointments. I used to be vigilant about everything from semi-annual dental exams to having my tires rotated. I like to think this bi-product has to do with the conscientious mellowing with age I've been doing. Before all the meditation and Eckhart Tolle and Buddhist workshops, I was so Type A! The truth, though, is that somewhere along the way I got too busy to keep up with it all. If I only had a secretary - or better yet, a wife - to manage my calendar and make it all happen for me!

Recently, a friend - a few years older, wiser, in possession of both an assistant and a spouse - asked when I'd last had the oil changed in my car.

My answer was predictably vague, since I couldn’t, in fact, recall. “What about a pap smear?” was the next question, which one can only consider a very broad leap – oil change to pap smear? (Come to think of it, there are similarities…) And then: “When was your last mammogram?” and “Have you had a skin cancer screening lately?”

I'm not completely irresponsible - I just find these things so inconvenient. Besides, once you've lived more than a couple of decades, you've heard countless doctors and scientists and auto mechanics change their views on just how often all of this is necessary, anyway.

The pap smear I could be proud of: just last fall! The oil change: Not so smug. Last summer sometime? Mammogram: 2010, I think. And skin cancer screening: Two years ago March. Okay four, actually.

Aghast, my friend compelled me to schedule appointments - practically loomed over me to ensure I followed through. Not wanting to forget (which is another problem - I might think it's a good idea, but if I don't write it down or do it straightaway, it'll never happen), I took my car in immediately and arranged the other nuisances while waiting among tire stacks and the blaring of Fox News.

A week later, I had my mammogram, and by the time I got the (clean) results, it was time for the next checkup. My dermatologist, who lovingly refers to my little moles and freckles as "wisdom spots,"  scanned me thoroughly with her piercing bright light. I was delighted to hear nothing but "Good. Good. Fine" as she scrutinized. I was home free when all of a sudden she squinted. “Hmm. How long have you had that spot on the side of your face?” I turned my head and looked askance at the tiny, inconsequential dot in the mirror. 

"You mean this little thing?"

A biopsy revealed in just a few days that the little bastard was skin cancer. “It’s the least invasive type,” the cheerful nurse informed me. “And we’ve referred you to the best surgeon in Columbia.”

Which is just a really long way of pointing out there is something to be said for channeling your inner Type A twenty-something (if you're lucky enough to have one). Otherwise, listen to your older, married friends. It is possible, if you pay careful attention to them, to learn something valuable. Now I must go and change the light bulb that burned out three months ago. And find a 9-volt battery for one of my silent smoke detectors...

Dance It

When I was 27, making my second stab at college in a small mountain town in Colorado, I tried out for a play. I'd seen the call for auditions randomly taped to the glass door of Hesperus Hall: a modern dance version of "The Nutcracker." I hadn't been in a drama class since my junior year of high school eleven years before. I'd never even acted in a play - unless you count my stumbling turn as Sally in "A Charlie Brown Christmas," my fifth grade class's showcase in 1976.

I tried out for one of the rare speaking parts and was quickly cast as a silent dancing rat. If you have recently seen the Nutcracker, you'll recall a short battle scene between the rodents and the toy soldiers.  In our production, we wee mice took on the stodgy warriors with a rather clunky capoeira, that Brazilian martial art that combines elements of dance and attack. My part involved lots of yoga-ish stances and tumbling on the wooden stage (which may account for my shoulder problems all these years later). The rats, as we tend to do, lost badly.

What I remember most vividly about our seven-night run was the evening of our final show. We rats were backstage climbing into our gray tights and applying our makeup, when a grave discussion ensued over how the alcohol necessary for the cast party could possibly be procured. The only rat who knew my background gamely volunteered me for the job. A little sophomore glanced at me and asked, "You're 21?" to which I replied, "Actually, I'm 27." Her jaw dropped in disbelief. She looked me up and down, then smiled patronizingly and proclaimed, "Wow, that's so great! To be your age and still doing stuff like this!"

Where you at, Li'l Rat?

I have never forgotten that girl, the way she pitied me and all the other 27-year-olds slumped by osteoporosis over our walkers, as if she herself would never reach that age.

She's pushing 40 now - funny how the number difference shrinks with time, isn't it? But we had less in common than our ages. I'm pretty sure she grew up to be one of those whiners who says things like, "Oh my god, I can't believe I'm going to be 40, I feel so old..." Which means today, two decades later, if she and I were at, say, a Zumba marathon, it'd go like this: We'd throwdown all Step Up Revolution style and I'd be all, "Yeah. Bring it. Check my body roll. Uh-huh. Tha's right." And all she could do is stand there with her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Beat It

As I alternately sit with it and run with it, I settle in to singledom. When I sit, I meditate - or try to. Mostly I squirm and think, "Stop thinking, just breathe in the bright white light of positivity; breathe out the black smoke of negativity..."

When I run, sometimes I go off the beaten track.Two weeks in a row, I'm out past my bedtime reading poetry, you dig? I somehow swung a feature gig at Drip, a tiny coffeehouse in 5 Points. There I was, in Al Black's Mind Gravy spotlight, surrounded by college students and supportive friends, plus one crazy man who kept proclaiming his love for me until finally getting thrown out. When the young'uns in the front row put down their iPhones while I read 30 minutes' worth of my stuff, I had a Sally Field moment in my head: "You like me! Right now, you like me!" Even you college kids! 

My man, Lawrence.

Which was really great since I have in fact never stopped thinking of myself as a college kid. I mean, when I'm not sweeping coarse gray hairs off the bathroom floor or rubbing Biofreeze into my arthritic shoulder. I feel I'm Sally Field and 27 in my head. (Yes. I was still an undergrad at 27.)

The "lonely old courage-teacher."

After the reading, my friend Cynthia - a professor of literature! - called me a modern day Beat. As an actual twenty-something, I'd hung out at North Beach's City Lights bookshop reading all the beatniks plus Charles Bukowski. I sort of worshipped Lawrence Ferlinghetti. So it felt damn spectacular to be referred to in this way.

And then, at the end of the open mic portion of the night, this kid in a baggy knit cap and draggy blue denim got up and recited - from memory - the only Allen Ginsberg poem I ever loved: "A Supermarket in California."

There we were - me, a generation removed from Kerouac, and this kid Ethan, a generation removed from me - sharing a Beat connection in a little city in South Carolina, about a million miles from where it began.

To listen to a reading of Ginsberg's poem that's nowhere near as good as Ethan's recitation, click here:
A Supermarket in California